


Culpable

by Anderseeds



Series: Hellsing works [13]
Category: Hellsing
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Emotional Manipulation, Existential Angst, Existential Crisis, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sexual Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anderseeds/pseuds/Anderseeds
Summary: Anderson peeled open his eyes and there was a glazed, but aware quality to them. “I don’t think I can give you satisfactory answers, Maxwell.”“Why?” Enrico practically snarled the question. “Because they’ll betray how little you care for me? For my miserable death?”“Because there’s no answer that will fix what happened,” said Anderson.Anderson and Maxwell survive the war on London, and Maxwell seeks catharsis in Anderson.
Relationships: Alexander Anderson/Enrico Maxwell
Series: Hellsing works [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622206
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Culpable

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck with a plot for these two and now you all get to suffer for it.

Enrico remembered death. He remembered the sight of his own blood, remembered how it had seeped out in some places and torrented in others. He remembered the cold that had crawled into his extremities and gripped his thundering heart. He remembered the tears and snot and terror, and most of all, he remembered the blurred outline of Anderson watching while the last vestiges of life left him.

Ironically, he didn’t remember how he came to live again. He’d been told by now that he’d been retrieved by some surviving Iscariot’s and flown back to the Vatican. He’d died, and they had brought him back with the same relic-derived technology that had recovered Heinkel’s limbs and regenerated Anderson from a husk of a body. There was a vast blank in his memory until he woke up three weeks later in the Vatican laboratories. He hadn’t even dreamed. It was perhaps for the best, since he’d been told reviving him had been a long and arduous process, and he may not have survived had he been cognisant enough to feel terror and pain.

Despite the briefness of his death, it had taken him a long time for him to acclimate to life again, and not least of all because how tremendously things had changed after the war on London. Much of Iscariot was dead. Reparations were being sought by not just Hellsing, but by England itself. New peace treaties had been ordered. In a desperate bid to replace Iscariot forces, new recruits were coming in in droves instead of the traditional trickle. The changes would have been difficult to adapt to even if he hadn’t died, but being thrown into the role of archbishop - a role pivotal in the recovery and peace efforts - so soon after waking had been incredibly disorientating. He hadn’t even been able to find refuge in Heinkel, who no longer resembled the woman Enrico knew in either appearance or personality. Yumiko’s death had hit her harder than anyone.

Then there was Anderson. Almost half a year later, he still found himself waking with a cry of ‘teacher!’ on his lips and a phantom ache in the white, puckered scars littering his chest. Sometimes the dreams gave him what the reality hadn’t: Anderson tearing through Alucard’s thralls to grab Enrico’s outstretched hand and haul him free of their grip, and in some ways, those dreams were worse than the ones in which he died.

He’d managed to adapt to everything in his new life _except_ Anderson. If he wasn’t being plagued by Anderson’s role in his death, he was being plagued by the symbolic death Anderson had subjected himself to after. The nail had been intended as a last resort. In the description he’d been provided of the battle between Alucard and Anderson, Anderson hadn’t been without men, nor strength. He’d had weapons left in his repertoire and his regenerative abilities would have stitched his arm back into place eventually. Enrico had no doubt he could have fought on- _would_ have fought on if not for the events that had transpired prior to the battle, and that knowledge was unbearable. All of it was unbearable, really. He was angry and aggrieved and Anderson was too broken for him to find any kind of closure.

He did try. He spoke to the man in hopes of reaching some catharsis, but there was little of it to be found in Anderson’s vacant stare. That was what Anderson spent most of his time doing nowadays- that and muttering random bible passages under his breath. There were also moments of lucidity, brief bursts of awareness of himself and his surroundings, but they were so few and far between that Enrico hadn’t yet managed to be present during one. He was so busy trying to run the decimated Iscariot and help the Pope arrange reparations that he hadn’t the time to wait for Anderson to come into one. He was lucky if he had a few hours to spare each day.

But he did increasingly spend at least one of them visiting Anderson. The man was kept in a room in the Vatican laboratories. Locked, though Anderson could have gotten through that with ease if he’d had any inclination to. The room was furnished with only a bed and a bookcase, and the books Anderson had been provided for his longer moments of lucidity looked seldom used. He didn’t require any sustenance, so he could sit in the room day in and day out without it being detrimental to his health. The room always smelt oddly fresh, like walking into a garden, and Enrico had come to associate the scent with the bowels of the laboratory rather than actual gardens.

Anderson raised his head when Enrico entered, like he always did. Whatever he’d been muttering died in his throat. He looked at Enrico in a way that made it clear he wasn’t seeing him, not really, but he did straighten as Enrico stepped closer. He still responded to stimuli. He wasn’t unlike an animal, in that regard. There was a certain doe-eyed quality to him when he watched you, like he was experiencing interaction for the very first time and was utterly captivated by it. Except it was always the first time for him. 

“I’ve been told you went on a job recently,” said Enrico as he wandered to Anderson’s front. Anderson looked up at him, unblinking. “You did spectacularly well. And no mess for once.” Enrico smiled and ran his fingers over the vines crawling out from the cavern of Anderson’s heart. The touch didn’t elicit any sort of reaction. He hadn’t expected it to. “You always left a mess no matter how many times I told you to be neat. Ever the impetuous hothead.”

Anderson tilted his head slowly and said nothing. Enrico’s hand ventured up, resting delicately over Anderson’s neck, over his pulse point, which thrummed feebly beneath his fingers. His body still contained signs of life despite the mass of vines occupying his heart. The miracle of the nail: not dead, but not truly alive either.

“I still dream about London,” he went on, his voice dropping in volume. “It’s hard to forgive a man for what you did, and it really doesn’t help that you’re not in any state to provide an apology.” Anderson stared at him, through him, and Enrico’s jaw tightened. “I did exactly what you taught me, you know. I brought holy retribution down upon monsters and non-believers. Does it really matter why I was doing it? Did I deserve a messy end for following your teachings?”

He hadn’t intended the meeting to go like this, but he didn’t try to fight the urge to throw accusations. There was no point in holding back with a man who wasn’t even cognisant.

Anderson offered nothing in response, like always.

“I’ve heard you told that _monster_ not to cry as you were dying.” He sneered. “But you just watched me when I was suffering. You didn’t comfort me.” He swallowed against the lump developing in his throat and curled his shaking fingers into fists, resting one against Anderson’s neck. No matter how many times he yelled at the man, it never made him feel any better, and yet he didn’t seem able to stop himself from doing it. “You even let that _monster_ kill me, someone you claimed to love-!”

A soft murmuring silenced Enrico’s shout. His eyes dropped to Anderson’s mouth, watching in wonderment as the lips moved, forming words too quiet to be intelligible. Anderson had never spoken in response to anything he’d said before. Hope swelled in him as he bent down, leaning in close to listen. The man’s hot breath rolled over his ear.

“…For the land has become defiled, therefore I have brought its punishment upon it, so the land has spewed out its inhabitants. But as for you…”

Just another bible passage, and one just as random as all the others that had come before it. Enrico’s hope petered out into miserable disappointment in an instant. He closed his eyes and dropped his head, his hand curling so tight around Anderson’s neck that he could feel skin breaking under his nails, skin that would undoubtedly heal over the moment he withdrew. He didn’t think anything of it- until he heard Anderson grunt.

He looked up, and he was greeted with Anderson staring at his hand with his lips parted and a slight divot between his eyebrows. Enrico curled his fingers again, and again he elicited a grunt. It dawned on him that Anderson had been described as _lively_ while out on the job. Perhaps he’d been going about this the wrong way; perhaps words weren’t what was needed here.

He moved his palm to Anderson’s throat, squeezing it gently to see how Anderson would respond. The man no longer needed to breathe, but he gasped all the same, and there was something like inquisition in the way he looked up at Enrico. Still not an appropriate response given the situation, but it was a start.

Maybe this dreamlike state of his could be dispelled through a threat to his well-being. Iscariot's weren’t in the habit of hurting their own, so that was something they’d never thought to test.

“Move backward,” he said, and Anderson did, shuffling back along the mattress until his shoulders hit the wall. The nail had made Anderson good at following orders, but with the sort of mindlessness that made Enrico’s throat clench. He’d always found Anderson’s tendency to put his own spin on the instructions Enrico gave him exasperating until he started responding to them like a windup doll. While obedience could be nice, there was little satisfaction to be found in it when the one obeying hadn’t any will to begin with.

Enrico followed him onto the bed, the mattress dipping as he drew up between Anderson’s legs and drove his palm against Anderson’s throat. With the wall behind him, there was nothing stopping his hand from crushing muscle and cartilage and driving Anderson’s head against the plaster. Though Anderson didn’t need to breathe, he still drew in rough, whistling breaths and twisted beneath Enrico’s hand, trying to free himself without harming Enrico, since he’d been explicitly instructed to never harm his brethren and _this_ Anderson never disobeyed an order (within reason, of course. Enrico knew from trying that Anderson couldn’t force himself into lucidity simply because you demanded it of him).

“Anderson,” he said, following Anderson as he shifted out from under Enrico’s hand, moving to grasp him by one of the lapels of his coat and haul him back. While the man was broader than him and indefinitely more powerful, Anderson offered no resistance when Enrico dragged him back onto the bed and pressed him into the mattress, fingers still tight around his throat.

The divot on his brow had deepened. That was promising.

“Can you hear me?” He squeezed his fingers around the warm column of Anderson’s throat, feeling Anderson’s pulse flutter beneath his hand. At this proximity, he was able to appreciate just how hot Anderson ran, radiating heat with all the intensity of a furnace. He’d run hot as a regenerator as well, but not like this. Not so much so that Enrico could feel a sweat developing at every point of contact. “Can you hear me?” he asked again, his eyes suddenly hot in a way that had nothing to do with Anderson’s scorching temperature. “Did you cry for me at all? Did you want to comfort me? Did you grieve in any way? Tell me, Anderson. Tell me. I need to know." Despite his best efforts to remain firm, his voice cracked. "Tell me, _please_.”

He was practically throttling Anderson at this point, his grip narrowing and pushing on each word.

Anderson looked at him now, really looked at him, his eyes wide and bright, his pupils focused. He closed one of his hands over Enrico’s and the silk of his glove was smooth and familiar. That large, gloved hand had so often drifted through his hair as a child, offering a love he’d been denied throughout his formative years.

“Anderson?” he asked softly, desperately. “Alexander? You hear me, don’t you? So tell me.”

Anderson parted his lips, and then closed them, swallowing. The recognition in his gaze faded a moment later, and the hand on Enrico’s drifted away, sitting placid on the mattress.

Enrico snarled in frustration, moving his hands to Anderson’s lapels to give him a shake.

“No, no, no, don’t you disappear on me! Anderson!” His fingers shook around Anderson’s coat and Anderson regarded him placidly. The pink lines he’d drawn into Anderson’s neck had already faded. “Don’t do this to me! Anderson, please-!”

How many times had he reached fruitlessly for Anderson in his dreams? And here Anderson was, drifting away from him again. He’d been told trying to get Anderson to maintain lucidity was like trying to hold onto fistfuls of sand, but he’d never experienced just how difficult it was until now, and maybe it’d been a mistake to subject himself to it at all. But now that he’d see one of those moments, he couldn’t deny himself more, and his hands snapped to Anderson’s throat for another attempt.

The door creaking open stopped him before he could apply any significant pressure. He threw his hands away from Anderson and turned a frown on whoever had interrupted him. Two doctors stood at the door, one young, nervous and holding a chart to his chest, and the other greying and weary.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” said the greying doctor with a polite bow of his head. “We were just about to take him down to the laboratories for another examination. The Section III specialist is here.”

Enrico slid off the bed and gave himself a shake to dispel his anger, forcing a smile upon his lips as he turned to properly address his company. “That’s perfectly alright,” he said, working to keep his voice calm. “I should be getting back to work anyway.”

“Thank you,” said both doctors, the elder striding in while the younger scuttled after him.

Enrico gave Anderson one more lingering look before he vacated the room. He would make sure to carve out a few hours to work on Anderson the next time he was free. It would require some rearranging his schedule and delegating work to his subordinates, and his superiors would no doubt be unhappy about it, but he would get those hours with Anderson. He would insist upon them. Wrenching answers out of Anderson had become a priority.

* * *

The next meeting was significantly more fruitful than the last. He went for Anderson’s chest this time, a point he knew to be vulnerable. Dug his fingers into the vines there with determination and scraped his nails over the hollow created by the nail. Anderson was _very_ lively then, writhing like a mouse caught in a trap, the sounds flittering from between his lips distinctly human. Gasps, mostly, but occasionally a groan would punctuate the air or a grating sound would emanate from deep within his chest. When Anderson tried to squirm away just like before, Enrico tore his fingers into the hair at the back of his head to force him to remain in place.

“Come back to me, Anderson,” he said, his voice a quiet hiss. “I’ll do this until I’ve wrested you out.”

He closed what little space was between them, bringing their foreheads together so he’d be the first thing Anderson saw when he became cognisant. He dipped his fingers into the core of the vines and curled until he felt Anderson shudder. Another push, and Anderson made a sound like a wounded animal, like a whimper, so unlike him that Enrico was sure it would have been impossible to draw out had he not been in such a primitive state. He maintained the pressure and eventually Anderson gasped and his wide green eyes alighted on Enrico’s.

“What’re you d-doing-?”

Enrico sucked in a breath. “Waking you up,” he said, keeping his fingers firmly in place. He _finally_ had Anderson cognisant enough to speak and he didn’t want to chance him receding again. “This is the only way. You’ll have to put up with it.”

“Hurts like hell,” Anderson muttered, but he didn’t try to push Enrico away. Just squeezed his eyes shut and took a few shuddering breaths. Enrico could only imagine the agony, but Anderson had always been good at tolerating that.

He stroked his other hand along Anderson’s scalp as a means of soothing him. “I have questions for you.”

“Be fast with them, then,” said Anderson. “These interludes are getting longer, but they still never last long.”

“They’re getting longer?” asked Enrico, his heart skipping at what that could mean for the future.

“Fractionally,” said Anderson. “That’s what the staff told me during their last visit. It maybe be years before they reach the hour mark.” He was trembling, Enrico realised. The only clue Anderson gave to his distress. Even trapped in a state of existential horror he tried to appear calm, and Enrico couldn’t decide if he was more impressed or annoyed by that.

“Minutes is enough to have my questions answered.” Enrico licked his lips. “Do you recall any of them? Any that I asked you?”

Anderson peeled open his eyes and there was a glazed, but aware quality to them. “I don’t think I can give you satisfactory answers, Maxwell.”

“Why?” Enrico practically snarled the question. “Because they’ll betray how little you care for me? For my miserable death?”

“Because there’s no answer that will fix what happened,” said Anderson.

Enrico’s nostrils flared and he curled his fingers, eliciting a grunt from Anderson. “I don’t care. I’d rather make it _worse_ than have no answers!”

“Maxwell—Enrico-“

“Don’t deny me this.” He pressed closer, pinning Anderson’s legs to the bed by slotting his own on either side of Anderson’s thighs. Something he knew he was able to do only because Anderson was letting him. “Did you grieve for me, Father?”

“Of course I did,” said Anderson. Enrico loathed the calm in his voice. “I love you, Enrico. I love you. You’re like a son to me.”

He wanted to snarl, but his lips were thinned and trembling instead. “A son? You killed me like it meant _nothing_.”

“I did what was necessary in the eyes of the Lord.”

“You watched me die.”

“I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Enrico took a shuddering breath and eased his grip on Anderson’s chest. Anderson had been right: this didn’t make him feel better. It made the ache in him all the more profound. The scars splashed across his narrow chest burned as though fresh, and he released Anderson’s nape to close a hand over them.

“I felt alone,” he said quietly. Anderson said nothing. “Do you still think I deserved to die?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” The volume of his voice was getting fainter, words tapering off. “You’ve been absolved by His Most Holy.”

“That isn’t an answer,” said Enrico. “Do you think I deserved to die?”

“I told you I was...” He seemed to fight to get out every syllable. “I was performing my…” The next he opened his mouth, the only thing that came out was a breath. His pupils slowly contracted into points and his gaze lost its focus. Like a marionette with its strings cut, he fell loose beneath Enrico, all the signs of life receding in an instant. 

Enrico let out a howl of frustration and dug hard into the core of Anderson’s vines, pressed so hard that he could feel the vines pulsing as thought they were the new chambers of Anderson’s heart, but it was a fruitless effort: the only thing Anderson did was shake and groan, and any lucidity Enrico did manage to draw out from that point came and went too fast for them to have an exchange. Apparently he’d dried Anderson’s well with that conversation, at least for today.

He lingered for the full three hours he’d spent two weeks painstakingly arranging. While he couldn’t get anything further out of Anderson, there was some comfort to be taken from sitting on the edge of the bed with Anderson’s head in his lap.

As a boy, he’d often laid with his head in Anderson’s lap while ill; not on his own initiative, but because Anderson would gently guide it there and stroke his hair when he was feeling particularly poor, and he hadn’t had the will to refuse the affection while so miserable and in pain. It’d always been more comforting than he’d ever let on, and the reverse was similarly so.

He swept his fingers through Anderson’s hair while he rest, just like the man had done to him as a boy. Maybe one day he’d be able to get Anderson to do this with him while conscious. It’d be nice to hear his soft breaths instead of the dead silence of the room.

* * *

There was no preamble when next Enrico was able to carve out some time to question Anderson. He tore his fingers into Anderson until the pain brought forth awareness and jumped right back to where they’d left off.

“Do you think I deserved to die?”

The vines under his fingers seemed to pulse harder in response to his question. The ones protruding from Anderson’s chest weren’t lined with thorns, so the hot pulse of them against his skin was pleasant, not unlike touching a radiator on a cool day.

“You’re alive,” said Anderson, blinking away his disorientation. “And I’m glad.”

Relief fell over Enrico in a wave. It felt _good_ to hear. It didn’t fix what had happened all those months prior; nothing could fix that, but it did make it more tolerable.

“But you think I deserved to die, in that moment?” he pressed. He did still want a proper answer.

“Your behaviour was an offence to God,” said Anderson. “Which you have already paid penance for.”

“Through you.”

“Through me.”

Enrico didn’t much like his matter-of-fact tone. “You punished me for something you taught me,” he said, closing a thumb and forefinger over Anderson’s chin to draw his face close, their noses a bare inch from touching. As always, Anderson was pliant under Enrico’s grip. He didn’t seem inclined to fight these days.

Guilt, perhaps?

“You taught me hate and death were a priority- a priority I fulfilled, leaning into your teachings every step of the way. You should have taught me better, and we have _both_ suffered the consequences of your failings as a teacher.”

A flinch. 

So it _was_ guilt. Enrico drank it in, basked in it, even if it was a bitter pleasure.

“Did you cry for me?” he asked, because he knew Anderson would be forthcoming about it with his failings fresh on the mind. “Did you cry when you sentenced me to death?”

Anderson ran a dry tongue along his lips. “I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t.”

“And? I know there’s more.”

“And I…”

The glazed look was returning to Anderson’s face. He squeezed his eyes shut when he next spoke, fighting against the encroaching insensibility.

“I thought it would be easier-“ Each word was bitten out. “To become a being that couldn’t feel.”

Something Enrico had already suspected, and the confirmation stung and gratified in equal measure. He liked the confirmation that Anderson cared, but hated that it had to come through something that had destroyed Anderson.

“Did you think of me as you died?” he asked.

“I- I saw…” Fading. “I saw…”

Growing impatient, Enrico dug his fingers further into Anderson and a startled, breathy gasp fell from Anderson’s lips. Pain curved Anderson’s spine, which pulled his clerical jacket tight around his pecs, and Enrico couldn’t help but notice how defined they were with them right in front of his face, clearly visible through the fabric. It was a strange thing to notice, he knew, but noticing that led him to notice the way Anderson’s torso began to narrow at the waist, and then how tight around the thighs Anderson’s trousers were. Things he’d noticed before, but the context didn’t seem as innocuous as it had in the past.

Enrico’s breath stilled in his chest when he identified what he was feeling. The sight of Anderson's body was _arousing_ him. He enjoyed seeing Anderson like this, trembling and arching under his hand. He enjoyed the needless pinning of Anderson to the bed and the way Anderson _let_ him. He enjoyed the sounds Anderson made. He’d come into these meetings knowing he liked inflicting himself on Anderson- but not like _this_. Or at least, that was what he’d thought.

“You,” Anderson finished in a groan, and heat stirred in Enrico’s body, travelling from his face and downward. His clothes suddenly felt too hot and restrictive. His heart thudded in his throat. Answers didn’t seem as important as they had just a few moments prior.

Attraction to Anderson was new, but an attraction to men wasn’t. He’d been wrangling with that since his youth, and at several points had given in and indulged in it. He’d ordered prostitutes to his room in the dark of night, fucked them and been fucked, and indulged in all the fantasies that had come into his head as a hormonal teenager. It hadn’t been a particularly life-changing experience, but it had been pleasant enough that he did it at least a few times a year.

As his teacher, father figure, and fellow clergyman, Anderson was the last person who should have been the subject of his interest. Enrico should have been ashamed for even considering it. But he wasn’t. The most prominent feeling was that of determination, and now not only for answers. He’d never been much in the habit of denying himself things and he was even less so after dying.

Anderson’s eyelashes fluttered and settled at a half-lid, the green just barely visible under them, and if it wasn't one of the most attractive things Enrico had ever seen. Casting his eyes over Anderson, Enrico realise there was little about the man that he _didn’t_ find attractive. He’d an impressive athletic build that gave him a broad chest and a narrow waist, visible even under all his layers; his skin was a beautiful, sun-touched olive; his eyes were an impressive bright green, and his soft hair and stubble both looked and felt wonderful. The only thing Enrico didn’t like were those vines, but that was a minor issue among all the positive features.

His mind was being inundated by intimate fancies as he drank in the sight of Anderson. He wanted to see the flesh under his clothes, slide his palms over it, curl his fingers into Anderson’s most intimate of places and watch him writhe. He wanted to feel the smoothness of his skin, its warmth. There was so much he wanted to do, but he contented himself with sliding an arm around Anderson’s shoulders and flexing his fingers through the vines. Anderson let out another, breathy sound that had Enrico’s cock swelling in his trousers.

“What was I doing?” he asked softly. The earlier desperation had left his voice, driven out by arousal.

Anderson’s throat bobbed. “Holding your hand out to me.”

“Offering forgiveness?”

Anderson was silent, but Enrico could see the assent in his face. Enrico leaned down and grazed his lips over Anderson’s forehead, marvelling in a way he never had before at how warm Anderson’s skin was. Words weren’t able to fix everything, but being close to Anderson might serve as a substitute for what he’d lost in London.

“Seems I’m not the only one who needed to pay penance,” said Enrico. He eased his grip on Anderson’s chest. “And don’t think you’re done yet.”

* * *

When next he managed to carve out a few hours to be with Anderson, Enrico didn’t waste any time on starting a conversation. He kicked the man’s legs apart and knelt on the mattress between them, knees acting as a block to keep Anderson accessible. Anderson stared placidly up at him, like he always did, even when Enrico undid his belt and unzipped his trousers.

He took a moment to run a hand over the rise of Anderson’s abdominals before he ventured lower, past the white of Anderson’s boxer shorts to drift through the smattering of hair at the base of his cock. When finally he fisted his hand around Anderson’s cock and drew it into sight, oh, was it a marvel. Thick and red, veiny and hot, and Anderson let out the most delectable whine when he touched it. When he began to stroke, Anderson trembled like an aspen, and that was even better. What a beautiful man he was. How had Enrico never noticed it before?

His strokes were helped along by the application of a little oil he’d stowed in a vest pocket. Just enough to keep the momentum, but not reduce the friction. Each slick, wet sound his strokes made pricked at Enrico’s nerves and sent his heart racing, and he was dazed by the intensity of his arousal. He’d never before been this turned on by another person, not even the most attractive of prostitutes. There was something exquisite about having such a powerful man beneath him. A man who could crush skulls with his bare hands, could send a bayonet slamming through the hardest material known to man, could kill tens of people in an instant. A man whose presence came with an air of dominance. And _Enrico_ was dominating _him_ , making him tremble and keen and rut his cock with an animalistic wantonness into Enrico’s fingers.

He slid his free hand into Anderson’s hair and cradled Anderson’s head so he could indulge in the sight of the mans flushed cheeks, parted lips, and glassy half-lidded eyes. A few strands of hair had fallen over Anderson’s forehead and glued themselves to his skin. So he could still sweat. Perhaps he would ejaculate normally, then.

Enrico dipped down to slide his tongue up Anderson’s throat, which bobbed and strained beneath his attention. He ventured beneath Anderson’s jaw and grazed his lips over Anderson’s throbbing pulse, then moved to mouth over the wedge of a scar on Anderson’s cheek. The skin was rough there and must have been sensitive, because Anderson shuddered as he trailed the tip of his tongue over it and left it wet and shining.

Throughout his exploration of Anderson’s neck and jaw, the rhythm of his strokes didn’t falter or slow in the slightest. He had enough practice multitasking in this way to be good at it.

“Enrico,” Anderson breathed, and that prompted Enrico to draw back to look at the man. Awareness shone in his eyes. Getting a hand job, of all things, had woken him up, and that was exactly what Enrico had hoped for.

A shaking hand closed around his wrist, but he strengthened his grip on Anderson’s cock to prevent Anderson from wrenching him away. The pressure drew a cry from Anderson.

“Enrico-!”

“You’re so close,” he said, pressing closer, pinning Anderson in place with his legs and arms and the quickened pace of his strokes. Anderson’s cock was throbbing against his palm. Pre-come beaded on the head. He wasn’t going to last much longer, and Anderson seemed to struggle to find the will to push Enrico away beneath his rising climax.

He crushed his mouth to Anderson’s, dipping his tongue past his lips to trail it along his incisors and molars and his hard palate, relishing the heat of his mouth and how very uncontaminated he tasted, like musk and freshness and nothing else. His nails tore down the nape of Anderson’s neck, down along his spine, and when he reached Anderson's waist, he slipped his hand under Anderson’s shirt and clergy jacket to hungrily fondle what flesh was hidden from him.

Upon reaching Anderson's chest, he twisted his fingers around the soft areola of a nipple, and that was enough to send Anderson hurtling over the precipice. He sent come spilling into Enrico’s palm, thick and unusually hot. Enough of it that Enrico could have used it as lubrication for more involved activities- but another day. He’d leave that for another day, because Anderson was looking so very lovely through his orgasm, sweaty and flushed and with his eyes rolled back.

And no doubt he would want to have a _conversation_ once the mind-numbing pleasure had subsided.

Enrico slowly eased Anderson onto the mattress, releasing him in favour of retrieving a handkerchief from a back pocket. He cleaned the come off his fingers with careful swipes and wrapped the handkerchief up tight, slipping it back into its pocket.

Anderson blinked blearily up at him. There was sweat clinging to his eyelashes, and he radiated more heat than usual. Even mid-winter as they were, Enrico was starting to feel overly warm.

It took Anderson several minutes to recover enough to speak. “That wasn’t right," he said, his voice hoarse.

“Have we ever obliged what was right, Alexander?” Enrico curled a hand over Anderson’s knee and Anderson jolted it away in a flinch.

“It isn’t right,” he said, his voice stronger but still tremulous. “I raised you.”

“You had a hand in it,” said Enrico with a snort. “You were my teacher, not my father, and we’ve been equals- no, I’ve been your _superior_ for a very long time.” He reached over to do up Anderson’s trousers, but Anderson curled away from him. “I’m in my thirties, Anderson. Not a child. Not _your_ child, and I wish to have you as any other adult wants another adult.”

“We’re clergymen. Our vows-!”

“We’ve killed people. Do you think there’s any greater vow to break than _that_?”

Anderson fumbled to tuck himself away, his face still bright red. He coloured so brilliantly. “You can’t do this.”

“ _We_ already have.” For self-preservation sake, Enrico drew back. Anderson had a volatile temper and awareness meant he wouldn’t hold back if it reached a peak. “You finished in my hand. You’re culpable. If you’d wanted to push me away, you could have, easily- but you gave in to your lust. Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

Anderson’s jaw visibly tightened.

“Why didn’t you push me away?” Enrico pressed. “You’re endowed with holy power. You could have done it with a _thought_.”

Anderson diverted his eyes, and Enrico knew he’d gotten a foothold. The man was not as pious as he’d led everyone to believe, evidently. Just as susceptible to pleasure as any man.

“It felt good,” he said. “Just like _killing things_ feels good for you, despite God’s message being explicitly against such things. You’ve indulged in that for so long that I don’t see why you should deny yourself this particular pleasure.” Enrico took a quick breath. “And it makes _me_ happy too, Anderson. If you’re unsatisfied with how things ended between us in London, then that should matter to you.”

“It does, but this isn’t like killing,” said Anderson, the bite no longer present in his voice. There was instead uncertainty, a wavering resolve. It’d been so strong, once; untouchable, but that had been before Anderson had thrust a holy relic into himself and rendered himself a monster, before his life had become a vicious cycle of being sent out to kill and sitting alone in this room. Things had changed. He was vulnerable.

Enrico almost felt bad for taking advantage. But it would be beneficial for them in the long run.

“It’s a _lesser_ sin to killing,” said Enrico. “And it brought you back to me, Alex.” He settled a palm on one of Anderson’s ankles, smiling when Anderson didn’t pull away. “In a much more agreeable way than harming you over and over. I don’t like to have to do that every time.”

“You’re like a son to me,” said Anderson, his voice uncharacteristically weak.

“Relationships evolve,” said Enrico patiently. He stroked Anderson’s ankle, not daring to venture beneath the hem of his trousers. “And this is a good direction for this one to go. I’ll be good to you and being good to you will satisfy me. It will make me happy.” His voice dropped to something soft and cloying. “I want to feel happy with you again, Alex. I don’t want it hurting every time I see you. I don’t want to keep on doubting that you love me, and intimacy would assure me that you do.” Enrico leaned closer, and Anderson took a shuddering breath. "I don't want to have to leave you, Alex, but I can't continue to subject myself to this for nothing. This has to happen for us to progress."

Anderson didn’t respond this time. He raised his arms above his head and buried his face into his elbows, curling up like he hoped it might make him invisible. The tremble had returned. Enrico was sympathetic despite his insistence this relationship go forward. Between this and the existential horror, the stress was probably starting to get to him.

But it was nice as well, to see that stoicism break.

“It’ll get easier,” he promised. His touch drifted along Anderson’s calf. The man, again, didn’t try to pull away, merely made a trembling sound in his throat. Enrico took that as surrender. “If you love me, it’ll get easier. You do love me, don’t you, Alex?”

Anderson answered immediately, his voice muffled by the fabric of his coat. “Of course.”

“Say it. Please.”

“I love you.”

“Good,” said Enrico, gingerly seating himself on the edge of the bed again. The danger had passed. Anderson had yielded. “And I love you. This will make us happy. You’ll see.”

* * *

It did get easier, and Anderson did start to become more receptive to his advances. He still hid himself on occasion, folding his arms over his face so Enrico couldn’t see it while Enrico got him off, but Enrico found that more endearing than anything else. Sometimes he would spy the tip of a reddened ear while he was sliding his fingers smoothly into the man and he couldn’t help but think that cute. Six foot six, built like a brick shithouse, able pop skulls like a grape one-handed- and one of the cutest men Enrico had ever had the pleasure to fuck. Well, with his fingers, anyway; they were steadily working up to Enrico putting his cock in him. He was in no hurry. He wanted to draw this out. He wanted to sully every part of Anderson until he was irrevocably, undeniably his, and that started from the outside.

He gradually explored Anderson's body, going from his toes to the crown of his head, applying his mouth to various areas. Anderson had stopped him in the beginning, a weak protest on his lips- a token protest, and Enrico simply pushed past it, showed him how good it could feel to let Enrico take what he wanted. That was a lesson Anderson was accepting with time. It felt good to be the teacher; it felt right, better even than their previous dynamic of superior and subordinate, where Anderson had so often resisted and disrespected him. He loathed the suffering that had preceded the change to their relationship, but the dynamic did soothe him.

“Do you love me?” he asked. He always did after intimacy, and Anderson always answered the same way:

“Of course I love you.”

He became surer that Anderson did indeed love him each time he heard it. Maybe there would come a time where he didn’t feel the need to ask it at all.

They had quiet moments as well, ones where they would simply indulge in the others company instead of intimacy. They were always brief thanks to Anderson’s condition, but still pleasant and satisfying. It took Anderson some time to get used to them, as he seemed under the impression that Enrico would want to be sexual with him _every_ time he visited, but he did eventually catch on that sometimes all Enrico wanted was to be close to him and would act accordingly during those times.

He was very receptive to affection. Sometimes to the point that Enrico felt like a plank of wood Anderson was clinging to in a raging river, a platform on which he could scramble up for the barest mouthfuls of air. Or awareness, rather. He could only imagine how horrific, and disorientating, and _terrifying_ it was to live life through snippets of cognisance. And to be alone through most of that- how terrible. How terribly frightened and lonely he must have been. The only consistent things he had were this room and Enrico, and this room was so cold and barren he doubted Anderson received any comfort from it.

It felt good to be the source of comfort Anderson so desperately needed. He enjoyed having the man curl up on his lap, liked the way he would shiver whenever Enrico traced his fingers along his nape. Liked how silky the man’s hair was under his hands, and how he would tilt into his palm like a cat seeking affection when he trailed one along his jawline. Liked that the tension would steadily drain from Anderson’s shoulders when Enrico massaged them, and that he wouldn’t complain when Enrico pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. The affection felt almost as good as the sex.

This was as close to perfect as they were going to get, and Enrico was happy. Happier than he had been since the events of London- so he didn’t understand why some nights he would lay awake with dread gathering in his chest and adrenaline surging through his veins. He tossed and turned and he was afraid of what he would uncover if he tried to pick apart the source of his restlessness, so he didn’t.

They were happy. That was all that mattered.

* * *

It took a month for him to imprint himself on every inch of Anderson’s body. Sometimes he did it with his hands, sometimes his teeth, and quite regularly, he’d have Anderson lay flat on the bed so he could come upon any body part he felt would look good splattered with his seed. His hip, his chest, his lips; the small of his spine, his thighs, the clef of his ass; his navel, his cheek, even his eyelashes, on one occasion. He never really got tired of sullying Anderson, but he’d already stamped himself on every stretch of available skin and it was about time he started on making sure Anderson’s body remembered him from the inside.

It would have been easier to instruct Anderson to remove his trousers while he was in his mindless fugue, but Enrico found more satisfaction in slipping them off himself, tugging them down Anderson’s strong thighs and calves before throwing them to the floor. His underwear was next, and then his shoes and socks. He laid Anderson out on the bed and slipped between his thighs, reaching up to peel open his clergy jacket and unveil his beautiful chest. It was impossible to resist the impulse to cup Anderson’s pectorals, his thumbs grazing over Anderson’s nipples as he gave the flesh a generous squeeze. Before withdrawing, he moved Anderson’s cross to rest just below Anderson’s rib cage, enjoying the contrast of silver on olive skin.

He’d brought a small vial of oil, as always. He first stroked it onto his cock, then let a generous dollop drip onto Anderson’s entrance and pushed it into him with two fingers. There was little need to prepare him. It wasn’t as though the man could be truly hurt, so he only spent a moment stretching Anderson open before positioning the head of his cock at his entrance.

Anderson wasn’t yet aware, but his cock was half-hard and colour had risen in his cheeks. He was a pleasant sight, and he would be even more so once Enrico was buried inside of him. Best of all would be whatever expression he made when he recovered cognisance to find a cock in him. He’d always looked delightfully open and vulnerable when he’d awoken to Enrico pleasuring him in the past.

That first push into Anderson drew a startled groan from Enrico. If Anderson was hot on the outside, he was _sweltering_ on the inside. He clung impossibly and wonderfully hot to the head of Enrico’s cock, perfect in a way no other partner ever had been, could ever be. He’d intended to enter slow, draw out the moment, but his mind had gone blank and he instinctively sought to bury as much of himself into that glorious heat as he could, sliding right in until his pelvis met with Anderson’s thighs.

God, he felt incredible. He was so damn tight on top of everything else, a vice around Enrico’s cock. So tight, so hot, so perfect. And all his. Enrico was only vaguely aware he was trembling as he began to thrust, holding Anderson about the hips so he was able to bury as deep as conceivably possible with each one. He’d spent so long imagining this very event and it was just as good, if not better than his fantasies. 

“You feel so good,” he breathed, drinking in the way Anderson shook and groaned and arched up off the mattress with each thrust. His body opened up to him like he’d been _made_ for this, made for Enrico. No resistance, no dryness as he’d encountered with past partners; just the smooth glide of his cock into Anderson’s incredible heat.

Anderson rising out of his fugue coincided – or was perhaps caused by – Enrico alternating the direction of his thrusts until he felt the slight swell of Anderson’s prostate along the underside of his cock. The man’s eyes snapped wide and he choked on a gasp, tearing his fingers into the blankets with a destructive force. It was just as pleasurable a reaction as Enrico had hoped for. He rolled his cock over Anderson’s sweet spot again and Anderson cried out, clenching so hard around Enrico that Enrico very nearly finished right then and there. He forced himself to cease all movement, keeping himself wedged in Anderson. His cock throbbed inside those hot walls.

“Eh-Enrico,” Anderson managed to stutter out, just barely. His thighs quivered and his toes and fingers curled.

“Relax,” said Enrico, though he knew he wouldn’t have met any resistance had he resumed thrusting. He just wanted to feel that clench ease, feel Anderson voluntarily open to him. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Anderson closed his eyes and did nothing for a long moment. The silence was strangely poignant, but Enrico was too aroused to give it much thought.

It was in increments that Anderson started to relax, loosening around Enrico little by little.

“That’s it,” Enrico encouraged, gently rocking himself back and forth, just enough to stimulate Anderson’s prostate. He’d calmed enough that he would probably be able to last a few more minutes before finishing, though Anderson would undoubtedly last for less. His cock was already bright red and shiny with pre-come. “Perfect.” He lowered his head to one of Anderson’s legs, pressing a kiss to the flesh just under his knee. “Perfect. You’re perfect, Alex.”

Anderson always had been a vocal person, and during sex, that was no different. He gasped and moaned and shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls, and at various points he tried and failed to muffle them with his teeth. The room was soundproof- the entire Vatican laboratory was, in fact, so there was no danger of them being overheard, and Enrico was glad for that, because he would have hated to deny himself the lovely noises Anderson made.

His pace recovered its earlier speed once certain of Anderson’s comfort. Bending over Anderson, his thighs pressing Anderson’s legs back, he curled his fingers around the cross sitting on Anderson’s sternum and dragged him forward by the cord. Anderson curled toward him and he took a moment to appreciate how utterly wrecked he looked – red from his cheeks to his ears, hair plastered to his forehead, saliva on his chin, eyes in the back of his head – before he closed the space between them for a kiss. Anderson struggled to reciprocate it under the practised strokes to his sweet spot, but managed a trembling press of lips before they were thrown open again by a particularly well-aimed thrust. 

He started to lose rhythm after a certain point. Which didn’t matter, because they were both so close that the friction was all they needed. His hand dropped back to Anderson’s hip to hold him in place while he chased his finish, grip so vice-like that Anderson would have bruised were he not so resilient. Bone grated under his fingers and fine blood vessels burst, but only briefly.

His thrusts became erratic and desperate. Desperate to come, desperate to fill Anderson with his seed and stain him in a way that would never truly fade. That desire only intensified as Anderson curled his legs around his waist and arched up off the bed, the back of his head thumping hard on the mattress- such a wonderful and perfect sight and Enrico thought dazedly that he’d never seen something so sublime even in the most beautiful of cathedrals.

Anderson came before him, as he’d expected, but the clench of his ass ensured Enrico wasn’t far behind, spilling into Anderson with a shout and a curl of his fingers into Anderson’s pelvis. Anderson’s own seed ended up on his stomach, dripping like wax between each of his abdominals. A wonderful sight that Enrico wasn’t able to properly appreciate before exhaustion prompted him to drop between Anderson’s legs. He lay over Anderson’s chest and ended up with his cheek crushed against some vines, but he was too content to reposition himself.

They both shivered through the aftermath of the sex. Enrico should have wanted a shower, filthy and sweaty as he was, but he didn’t have any desire to move, and certainly not to dislodge from Anderson’s wonderful heat. He’d carved out an entire evening for them and Enrico intended to take advantage of every minute of it.

For a long time, neither spoke, nor moved. And then Enrico slowly raised his head to look at Anderson. The man was staring up at the ceiling. Not vacant, thankfully, because Anderson’s brows didn’t knit like that when he was unconscious, but neither was he entirely there.

A chill prickled along the surface of Enrico’s heart. He thought of those nights of tossing and turning among sweat-soaked bed sheets-

“Alex,” he said quietly. “Do you love me?”

Anderson lowered his head enough to lock their eyes. A smile rose on his lips, the sort you extended to placate a child. It comforted Enrico all the same.

“Of course I love you.”

The chill subsided. Enrico took a deep breath and smiled back.


End file.
